


Run with the Hares

by myriadofnothing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Chris Argent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Bottom Derek Hale, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dark Chris Argent, Dark but like a medium roast not dark roast, Humiliation, Kidnapping, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mindfuck, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Derek Hale, Omegaverse Fusion, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, Smut, Top Chris Argent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-09-17 06:31:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16969476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadofnothing/pseuds/myriadofnothing
Summary: Derek is captured by Chris and goes into heat.  A dark a/b/o id-fic with consent issues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the tags:  
> There are the a/b/o brand of consent issues and power imbalance issues. This is not hurt/comfort; there is not much fluff or comfort. There is mild violence and gore, but this isn’t torture porn. Characters are dark/out of character versions of themselves. Canon and canon history are not strictly followed, and Omegaverse and Teen Wolf canon setting biologies are fused and altered.

The crossbow bolt pierced Derek's shoulder just underneath the hinge of the clavicle.  The head went through him and thudded into the tree behind.  He was pinned, the fletching sticking out of his chest.  He snarled.

He had been tracking the mysterious alpha around town and out into the woods.  The track was days old- it would have been too dangerous to follow fresh.  Imagine if he came across the alpha, toe to toe?  But it had turned out to be dangerous in the woods in any case.  Hunters were drawn to town by the supposed animal killing: the surgically dismembered wolf that had been, in reality, his sister.  She'd been killed by another werewolf.  It was nearing sunset and a group of hunters was clearing the woods, looking for the culprit or for any werewolf to punish.

The wound was too high to have injured his lung; he could still breathe and run.  He snapped the fletched end of the shaft and levered himself off of it with a suppressed grunt.  He ran.  He covered twenty feet before another bolt grazed his arm, then a third struck his lower leg.  The leg collapsed under him on the next step.  He tumbled end over end through the leaf litter, scrambled up and collapsed again.  The pain was sharp and intense, but worse than the pain was the certainty that the hunters was closing in on him. 

This bolt had entered the back of his lower calf, destroying his Achilles tendon.  It had gone through and through, exiting obliquely through the adjacent muscle.  He was crippled.  His enhanced body could heal in a matter of days, but right this second he couldn't run, not even walk, away from the hunters.

A cool wind rose, chasing away the remnants of the lukewarm September day.

The hunters jogged up, fanning in a circle around Derek.  They kept far enough back to be out of range of a sudden lunge.  Between them, they carried handguns, rifles, tasers, and crossbows.  He could smell wolfsbane on them, and excitement.

"What do we have here?" one of the hunters said.  It was Chris Argent. 

His parents had taught him to keep his head low during the full moon, to watch out for the Argents.  Chris Argent would leave you be if you didn't break their code, but if you did lose control, if you did hurt someone, then he would lead the hunters' posse himself.  To teenage Derek, he had been the bogeyman.

Derek pushed himself to sit, struggling not to move the injured leg, bracing himself with the arm opposite his shoulder wound.

"Derek Hale," Chris said, casually reloading his crossbow.  "It's been a while."

He had an equine yet predatory look: lean and strong; a long face and deep, narrow eyes.  He wore a short utility jacket and jeans with a low-slung holster on his thigh.

He approached and stood over Derek.  "You're the one who's been killing 'animals' out in the preserve?  Stalking people in town?  I thought better of you."

"That wasn't me," Derek ground out.  "I'm looking for him, the same as you.  He killed my sister."

"Is that who that was?"  Chris squatted next to him.  Crow's feet lined his eyes, the result of years of squinting in the sun while out hunting werewolves.  He rested the crossbow on his thighs easily, as if he didn't notice the bolt under tension was pointed at Derek's chest.  "Why did you run?"

"Why do you think?" Derek retorted, indicating the state of affairs with a sweeping gaze.  Blood was soaking his punctured tee shirt, staining the black fabric into a rusty maroon.  A thick clot of black ichor confirmed his suspicion that the crossbow bolts had been poisoned with wolfsbane.

A smile pulled at Chris's lips, turning into a smirk and then fading. "I guess you couldn't be the killer.  If you'd done it, you would be an alpha now."  He leaned in and lowered his voice.  "You smell good as an omega."

Chris was an alpha, he now recalled.  When Derek had been a beta, that information was inconsequential.  Human alphas just weren't compatible with werewolf betas.  Human alphas and werewolf omegas?  They could make it work.

Derek locked eyes with Chris with a scintilla of defiance.  He received enough threatening overtures from werewolves; he didn't need any from a human.  Especially not now, when he hadn't even finished burying-- he avoided the rest of the thought.

Chris reached with his left hand and pulled a leaf from Derek's hair, the crossbow leveled all the while.  A chill set into his stomach.  The only reason a human was so comfortable while in reach of his claws and teeth, wounds and predicament aside, was that he was wholly ready to pull the trigger if he needed to.

"What do you know about this other werewolf?" Chris said.

 _Cooperate_ , Derek told himself.  The Argents only targeted problem werewolves; they would see he hadn't done anything wrong.  If anything, they were on the same side.  "Nothing... He's an alpha with a full shift.  He's been in and out of town.  I don't know what he wants."

Chris nodded.  "Have you been with him?"

"What?"

"Have you been with him, as an omega?"

Derek glowered.  "No!  No, I didn't fuck my sister's murderer."  His fingers clenched, piercing the dirt.

"Prolonged proximity of an alpha will trigger a heat response in an omega," Chris said dryly.

Derek didn't know where this was going, but he didn't like it.  His shoulder throbbed and his lower calf was on fire.  "So?"

"You're going into heat."

"No, I'm not!"

Chris put his left hand under Derek's chin and pushed upward.  Derek's breath came faster.  Acutely aware of the crossbow, he allowed his throat to be exposed, his defiance ebbing into dread.  Chris leaned in even further, putting his nose to the artery under the corner of his jaw.  He whispered: "Yes, you are."

A tingling shiver flooded down Derek's spine.

Evolution had provided omegas with a way to avoid being squeezed out of pack territories, to draw powerful protectors toward them.  Close and repeated contact between alpha and omega would incite the omega's estrus, as could physical and mental distress.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, a seed of panic sprouting in him.  He didn't feel the strong, animalistic instinct a werewolf alpha would draw out of him.  But he felt his body's response to the human alpha: a titillation despite his injuries.  Chris was right.  What had happened?  Had the tangential crossing of the mysterious alpha's tracks over the course of the last few weeks done it, despite no direct contact?  Had Chris pushed him over the edge?

Chris pulled back to give Derek an appraising look from his pupils to his throat, to blood-soaked shoulder, and down the rest.  He released his chin.

"I'll tell you what.  Let me get you patched up.  Those points had Nordic Blue on them; I have the antidote.  I'll get you through your heat."  He trailed off for a moment as if distracted by the thought.  "We'll put you on ice for a few days, make sure you're not on the wrong side of this rogue alpha business.  If you're telling the truth, then you'll be free to go- as long as you leave town.  I'll buy you a bus ticket anywhere you want to go."

"And what if I say 'no?'"

"You want to be left like this with that alpha around?"

Derek's mind spun.  He wasn't prepared for a heat.  He didn't know any nearby packs, not anymore- maybe if he dug through his old contacts-

Chris interrupted his thoughts.  "You're coming with us regardless.  Whether you want the antidote and company for your heat is up to you."  He stood, backing up a pace, and gestured to one of his men.

There was thudding click and then a pinpoint, hot, and penetrating pain sprouted from Derek's thigh.  He jerked, then pulled a red tufted, silver tipped dart from his leg.

"Just a tranquilizer," Chris said.  Derek treated him to a glower.  The muscles holding him sitting weakened.  He lowered himself to the ground.  Overhead, the leaf-green canopy and slate gray sky swirled together.  He lost consciousness.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The bump and sway of a moving car jostled him into a hazy awareness.  His body felt heavy; even his eyes were hard to open.  The hunter's face was over him, watching him.  His arms wouldn't move.  Something on his throat threatened to choke him.

Chris said something he couldn't grasp.

He could smell corruption: wolfbane tainted flesh.

Darkness enveloped him again.

#

Derek came to in a basement, heart suddenly racing, the chill of fear spreading through him.  He was laid out face up on a steel table.  His wrists were shackled together and affixed over his head; his ankles had the same treatment, their chain disappearing over the bottom edge of the table.  A pronged, unyielding thing around his neck dug into his skin and made it uncomfortable to swallow: a collar.

 _What the fuck._   His shirt was missing, and while his jeans were cut off at the knee on his injured leg, they were still on him.  He was apparently unmolested.  An ashy, herbal-smelling mud was plastered under his collarbone where the bolt had gone through him.  The graze on his arm and his mutilated calf had received the same treatment.  The wounds were numb, the skin around them tingly and cool.  He had smelled dying, poisoned flesh in his dream ( _that wasn't a dream, was it_ ) but he smelled nothing of it now.

He tried his bonds clumsily, tested the shoulder on his wounded side, then braced himself and yanked again, harder, more coordinated.  Nothing budged, not even a creak of protest, and the effort left him panting.

He paused to collect himself and noticed with a surge of apprehension that there was another heartbeat in the room.

He couldn't sit up but craned his neck to look around.  The basement was a hunter's armory.  Weapons were neatly arranged on racks: crossbows, marksman rifles, a pair of assault rifles, dart guns, shotguns of differing barrel lengths, two swords, cattle prods, and more.  He was in the lair of the enemy.  Strips of fluorescent ceiling lights lit the place unevenly, glinting off metal and leaving stark shadows. 

Against the opposite wall, dim and just brushed by the lights, was a sort of bachelor's kitchenette.  Chris Argent lounged on a ratty love seat next to a three-quarter sized fridge.  One leg was stretched out on the seat, and one arm over the backrest.  He held a bottle of beer by the neck, the sleeves of his long sleeve shirt pushed up around his forearms.

Chris watched him steadily, his mouth half curled in a charmed smile.  When he saw Derek had noticed him at last, he said, "Welcome back."

Angry to see the hunter so pleased by the situation, Derek said, "Fuck you."  His voice was raw and thick.

Chris rose.  He crossed the room with a tired grace, muscles warmed and loose from a day of hunting.

Derek remembered that the crossbow bolts had been meant to kill, not capture.  That fact that he wasn't dead right now was a fluke: a footfall into slightly lower terrain, a gust of wind.  Fear doused his anger and wrapped around his heart, squeezing it faster.

Chris put a hand on his abdomen, below his navel, where he was vulnerable to evisceration.  Derek flinched with a rattle of chains, then stilled, tense.  A human didn't have claws, but the gesture was still threatening.

The tingling warmth of his heat unfolded inside of him.  Chris smelled like burnt wolfsbane and dried sweat, but the alpha pheromones coming off him twisted the bitter scents into something stirring.  The warmth tangled with his fear.

Chris stared down at him, eyes flickering over his bare torso before connecting with his own.  His eyes were pale blue, like the sky before dawn.  Derek scowled to hide both sides of his reaction.  He couldn't hide his pheromones, though.  Chris leaned down and scented him, breathing in slow, shallow breaths through his nose.  The exhalations caressed Derek's neck.

A clenching in his loins told him he was getting wet, his body readying him to accept the alpha.

"You're close," Chris said in his ear, his voice a little rough.  He leaned a little pressure into the hand on Derek's stomach for balance and stood upright. 

Derek sucked in a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Nothing to say?" Chris said.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No."  He wasn't lying.  "Not unless I have to."  That was no lie either, no bluff.  Chris stroked his hand up Derek's bare flank, another vulnerable area, watching his hand as it went.  He traced his fingers under the swell of his pectoral muscle.  "I wouldn't have dragged you all the way out of the woods and mixed this poultice if I was going to kill you."  He put a featherlight touch to the muddy plaster on Derek's chest.  Derek couldn't stop himself from cringing, but Chris's fingertips didn't feel like anything against the numb wound.  Chris continued.  "I know you've just woken up, but you're really close.  Do you want a heat partner or to be left alone?  There is a cell in the back you can go in."  Chris didn't look at his face as he spoke.  His expression was strangely serious, naked of lust.

Derek had spent heats alone before, in his apartment in New York, surrounded with comforts and distractions and porn and other artificial things, and even then, they were wretched.  Those were some of the few times he'd cried, overflowing with frustration bordering on agony.  Being locked alone in a cell in some hunter's basement sounded like torture, especially with the alpha right there, teasing his heat into blossoming.

"No," he ground out.

Chris lifted his hand palm up in a glib gesture.  "'No' to me fucking you or 'no' to the cell?"

Derek grit his teeth and pushed his shame down.  He'd been an omega for six years, he ought to be past that.  "Don't leave me alone like this."

A little smug smile crossed Chris's face before disappearing.  "I won't.  You have to be restrained when I knot you, though.  You understand."

"Bite off more than you can chew, Argent?" Derek said with more bravado than he felt.

"I doubt it.  But we'll see."  Chris pulled his shirt off, revealing an efficiently muscled body and a tidy scattering of brown chest hair.  Derek averted his gaze, then looked back; _why be coy?_   Chris certainly wasn't. 

Chris wadded up his shirt with a mesmerizing flex of tendons in his forearms and held it just below Derek's nose.  "Here.  This should do it."  He repeated, "You're really close."

Derek hesitated but there wasn't anything to do but breathe in.  And again, and again.  Chris watched his reaction with an expression part calculating, part hungry.  The alpha's pheromones seemed to flood directly into his brain.  The warmth in him turned into hotness, spreading into every corner until even his palms felt hot and itchy.  His skin leaked heat as if he was a furnace.  His lower abdomen throbbed.  He could feel the cleft of his ass become slippery, his natural fluids leaking out of him.

He breathed faster.  He squirmed, his restraints rasping.  "Are you waiting for a written invitation?" he growled.  There was no point drawing it out any further.

Chris gave a curious half-smile and tossed the shirt to the floor.  "Eager."  He pressed a finger under Derek's chin in the soft spot between his jawbones.

Derek was ready to submit.  He tilted his head back to expose his throat where the aorta and trachea lay.  Even a human could crush the delicate structures there.  The sharp fluorescent lights burned in his eyes.  His prick was uncomfortably hard, trapped in his jeans.

"Good," Chris muttered, maybe to himself.  He fed slack through the chains to Derek's wrists, then yanked him by the ankles of his sneakers to the bottom edge of the table.  Derek made a surprised noise but finished moving into position himself, turning over, lighting his feet on the floor, testing his weight on his injured leg.  With his top half bent over the table, there was enough slack in the chain to get his elbows under his chest and lean low on his forearms.

"That's it," Chris said softly, encouraging.  He bracketed Derek's flanks with his hands as he moved, letting his body turn under his cool palms.  He stepped in close, pressing their lower halves together, pushing Derek forward so the table dug into the front of his thighs. 

Chris's fingers stabbed in suddenly, ten points of pressure below Derek's ribs.  Derek's breath stuttered.  He had nowhere to flinch: the table in front, Chris behind, and his dangerous hands on either side.  No, not dangerous: no claws. 

It dawned on him that Chris was well versed in werewolf foreplay.  Humans didn't demand their omegas show their throats in submission, did they?  They didn't poke around in vulnerable areas, threatening with claws they didn't have.  A werewolf alpha would hold him just like this, claws delicately pricking the skin of his flanks, warning him not to move and not to struggle as he was mounted.

He was utterly outmaneuvered, he realized.  The hunters were experienced and equipped exactly to their purpose.  He had been tracked, taken down, and restrained (and mended?), all expertly.  And now Chris was in his head, just as skilled in knowing how to make him flinch.

Derek whined.  It was a pathetic sound, high in his throat.  'I am at your mercy,' it said.

"Good," Chris said again, a whisper now.  He relaxed his pointed fingers and stroked over the skin instead, petting him, then slid his hands around to open the button on Derek's jeans.  The feeling of the hunter draped around him was intimate; it made his blood sing--

It made the tendril of panic inside of him bloom again.  This was happening.  A hunter was going to fuck him through a heat.  He hated heats; he hated being like this.

Derek's voice was a little thick when he spoke.  "What's with the collar?" he said, suspecting just another tool to undo him.

"Electroshock.  In case you get feisty."

He wouldn't.  He would be good.  Wrestling down a combative omega might be so much courtship to a werewolf alpha, but he doubted Chris's appreciation for werewolf behavior went that far.  A werewolf that damaged a human didn't get very far with the Argents.

Chris hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and boxers and shoved them down to his thighs.  Two hands spread his ass cheeks.  "Jesus," Chris said beatifically.  A thumb slid down the wet, slippery middle, making Derek twitch when it passed over his asshole.  Derek looked over his shoulder to see Chris put his thumb to his mouth and suck the pad between his lips.  By his expression, the taste was succulent.  Derek might have flushed, but his blood was already hot and close under his skin.

That was the end of the preliminaries.  Chris opened his own fly, standing too close for Derek to see.  A steadying hand went on Derek's hip and denim brushed his bare cheeks and a cock pressed to his hole.  There was no teasing, just a mounting pressure against the slippery ring of muscle.  Derek was wet but still tight; he tried to breathe and relax.  Chris pressed harder and suddenly he breached through, forcing Derek to stretch painfully around his cock.

Derek jerked and snarled under his breath.

A hard hand took him by the back of the neck, above the collar, squeezing tightly as if Derek was a pup to be controlled by his scruff.

"None of that," Chris said breathlessly.  "You wanted it."

The two of them waited a handful of seconds.  Derek consciously made himself relax, go heavy under the bruising grip, let his forehead rest on his arms, and bore down on the alpha's cock inside him.

Chris started to move, a few shallow rolls, and then harder and deeper.  The discomfort was lessening, though it spiked with each thrust.  There was something profoundly satisfying despite it, about being fucked like this, tied down, held hard and told to take it.  It was all the estrus; it was all the omega parts of him that liked it.  Sometimes it helped to remind himself of that.  This wasn't who he was, just something he'd become. 

Chris bottomed out and ground his hips in tight little shoves.  A gorgeous ache took the place of the hurt.  Derek's mouth fell open and he moaned.

"There you go," Chris said, like he was praising a dog.  "That's better, isn't it?"

Derek wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but the words got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth.  He moaned again instead.  Chris was hitting a hidden pleasure in him, a place that didn't exist outside of his heat, a broad intense satisfaction of having a cock deep inside him. 

Chris released his neck to grab his trapezius for leverage.  He pulled back so just the head of his cock was still trapped inside the ring of muscle, then shoved back in fully.  He started a rhythm of deep, hard thrusts.  Derek ran out of breath to keep moaning and just breathed openmouthed, his breath dampening the skin of his arms and clouding the steel table with condensation.  With each forward thrust, the edge of the table dug into the front of his thighs and his cock bobbed tightly.  He pressed back, trying to spread his legs wider against the restrictions of his jeans still around his thighs, letting his back arch and his chest rest flat on the table.  His heat was like fire in him; he was fully engulfed.  He always forgot how pleasurable heat sex could be; it was the other baggage that turned him off. 

As if it was a confession, Chris said, "God, you are good."

It only took a couple of minutes for Chris's knot to appear.  He slowed, holding Derek tightly.  With a noise of sheer effort, he stilled entirely, fully sheathed.  "Hold still," he warned, an edge to his voice.  Derek knew how to take a knot though, knew how agitated alphas could get about it, and stayed still and pliant.

Chris groaned and then fumbled under Derek's hips, his knuckles brushing his cock before he took it in hand.  His grip was awkward and distracted but the touch sent shocks of pleasure through Derek anyway.  Chris's knot grew into a thick pressure, and when it pulsed, he knew Chris was cumming inside of him.  Derek made an embarrassing breathy, eager noise.  His cock leapt in Chris's hand.

After that, Chris didn't have to do anything special to make him cum: he just stroked up and back over the sensitive head of his cock a dozen times while his knot was in Derek's ass, lazily spurting cum deep into him.  Derek gasped and scrabbled with his fingers for something to hold on to.  His muscles clenched from his toes inside his sneakers, to his thighs pressed firmly against Chris's, to his abdominals that tried to hunch him inward- though he held himself very still for the alpha that was still knotted inside of him.  He came in Chris's fist.

Endorphins flooded him and his mind floated away on them, lost out of the present.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't open his eyes so much as realize that his eyes were already open, temple resting on his forearm.  The air was a lewd mix of the sweet smell of omega, musky human sweat, and both of their pheromones.  A loose hand held his shoulder and another stroked his back and sides, the palm sticky with sweat and stuttering over his skin.  His ass ached with fullness and his thighs hurt where he'd been shoved repeatedly into the edge of the table- a deep tenderness that meant he was bruising.  He felt lightweight, like he wasn't really attached to his body.

"You with me?" Chris said.

Derek slowly picked up his head and looked over his shoulder.  Chris was flushed through his chest, sweaty, his dirty blond bangs damp and his chest hair saturated.  His eyes and mouth were tight in an intense look that Derek couldn't parse. 

Derek let himself relax forward again, the room seeming to spin out of time with his movement.  The basement looked the same as before; no hint of daylight showed through the windows, if there were any windows.

"How long was I out for?"

"Couple minutes."

There were times when he'd lose hours from his mind floating on endorphins.  He might be indistinctly aware of being moved or mounted again and come back to clarity to see he'd been dragged to a woods den or the alpha's apartment.  It was nearly as disorienting to realize he hadn't lost much time at all.

Chris started to drag his hips, stirring his knot inside of him in a mix of discomfort and blunt pleasure.  Derek groaned.  It was going to be a long heat if he couldn't even drift off long enough for the alpha to finish knotting him.

"You're doing good," Chris said, cajoling.

Chris leaned down to blanket him, bracing a hand in the space under Derek's armpit.  He was two inches shorter than Derek; he mouthed a hit of teeth where he could reach, over the last vertebrae at the bottom of his neck, then started sucking a hickey on the top of his uninjured shoulder blade.  Chris's head of hair brushed softly against his ear, a little damp.  He didn't change the slow, barely moving roll of his hips, but the sensation became more and more intense, the knot dragging through Derek's clinging body, his organs rearranging for it. 

Derek started to squirm.

Chris leaned heavily on him for a moment, trying to pin him but not strong or heavy enough to stop a werewolf.  Changing tactic, he scruffed Derek again.  "Shh."

A heavy heat rolled through him.  Derek stilled.  Chris's skin against his back was cool and half slippery, half tacky with sweat.  They held together like that for a few minutes, Chris breathing at the nape of his neck and occasionally testing his teeth, gently more or less, on the skin in front of him.

#

Chris didn't let him up from the table after they untied.

He walked away to clean himself up, leaving Derek restrained bent over, jeans around his thighs, and cum slipping from his asshole.

"Are you going to take these off?"  Derek said, testing his restraints again.

"No."

"I have to piss."

Chris rummaged in the kitchenette.  He was shirtless and barefoot but still wearing his jeans, apparently unconcerned by the damp patch at the groin.  He returned with a disposable plastic bottle, the kind with thin plastic that crinkled. 

Prickling with shame, Derek said, "You're joking."  Despite everything, there was an incongruous relief in having the alpha back close.

"I'm not."  Chris took hold of Derek's mostly limp penis and directed the tip onto the bottle's mouth.  Derek automatically reached to stop him but came up short on his shackles.

"I'm not pissing in a bottle."

"Your other option," Chris explained slowly, with emphasis, "Is for it to be forced out of you by my knot the next time I fuck you, and you can lay in a puddle of it."  That wasn't true; Derek could hear the exaggeration in his heartbeat. 

"Just let me-"

"No," Chris said, the calmness in his voice a warning.  "That's not how this is going to go."  He shifted his grip to one hand, maneuvering behind Derek, wrapping around him to splay his other hand under Derek's navel in a threatening caress.  "You will stay safely restrained at my discretion."  Coarse, worn denim rubbed the bare skin of his buttocks, slipping in their fluids.  "Or you can finish this heat in the cell.  Then you can use a bucket instead of a bottle."

The desire to spread his legs again and let this alpha do whatever he wanted took over, overriding his thoughts. Derek shook his head minutely.

"Come on, then."  Chris waited five seconds, then the hand on his belly tightened into a fist.  It pressed inexorably inward into Derek's bladder.

"You asshole," Derek gasped as a release of urine was forced from him into the waiting container.

"So they tell me," Chris said, ambivalent. 

Chris brought a glass of water which he held while Derek drank.  Derek tried to glare but the wolf in him couldn't hold the eye contact.  The hard edge to Chris's composure, having awoken at Derek's attempted dispute, now filtered away as he watched Derek's mouth swallow in succession.  Water spilled cold down Derek's chin, running under the collar. 

Then Chris wiped him down carelessly with a damp washcloth.  The fucking had been fine, comparatively; this part was humiliating.  Derek closed his eyes and tried to disconnect and drift off again.

With a warning about the consequences of kicking, Chris released and reattached his ankles one at a time to finish shucking off Derek's jeans- delicate with his injured calf- and his sneakers.  He wiped the cum and fluids that were leaking down the insides of Derek's legs, working upward to rub the terry textured cloth against his hole.  He lingered there, circling the cloth much more thoroughly than was necessary and sending hot pleasure coursing through Derek on top of his humiliation.

"You're a fucking asshole," Derek said, but his tone lacked venom; it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.  After a long moment, Derek surrendered, tilting his hips up and pressing back to expose himself more fully to Chris's touch.

He could hear the smile in Chris's voice.  "There it is."  Chris slipped two fingers inside him, easy; he was loose and soaked.  Derek bit his lip.  It felt good, like soothing an itch, but he was sore, too. 

Chris detoured to snag his open beer and returned to finger Derek lazily for several minutes until he was pliant and hard again, warmed to the attentions of the alpha, breathing deep their mix of scents.  He nuzzled his cheek into his bicep, wishing it was an alpha he was nuzzling against- maybe a different alpha, one who wasn't a prick.

"Here, get up on your back," Chris said, setting the bottle aside, his tone even softer.

Guided by Chris's urging hands, Derek awkwardly hoisted himself back on the table and turned face up.  "Do you have something against fucking on a bed?"

He heard Chris rustle over his head and felt a little tug on his wrists as his tether was adjusted, his wrists out of the way over his head but his elbows free to comfortably flex.  "I don't have hardpoints in my bedroom."  His legs were separated to their own sides of the table, kept open with knees bent, forced wanton, with no play for kicking.  Derek's heart rate kicked up in anticipation.  "But sure, if you behave yourself, maybe I'll let you on the bed."

Derek flushed.  "Fuck you," he said, trying to snap but just sounding breathy.

"You're surly for an omega," Chris marked.  "Don't pretend you don't like this."  He looked to Derek's erection, jutting eagerly out of spread thighs, and then met his gaze to raise his eyebrows pointedly.  Derek's prick jumped and firmed further, as if siding with Chris.

Derek knew he should have a thousand things to say to that, but the blood supply for his brain must have gone to his cock instead, because nothing came to mind.  Chris reached for Derek's cock and pulled on it experimentally, his hand dry now, the texture of his palm smooth but not soft.  Maybe it would be better if they didn't talk.

Chris played with him.  His hands, his scent, just the sight of him standing there built a thorough craving inside Derek.  Chris seemed interested in Derek's foreskin, experimenting with how it glided and retracted.  He flicked the exposed, pink head with his thumbnail and his mouth twitched in amusement at Derek's full body flinch.  He spat into his palm and pulled full, wet strokes along the shaft.  There was a curious, intent look on his face; Derek realized that Chris was probably not in the habit of sleeping with men.

There seemed to be a halo of light around the two of them, the bright ceiling lights washing out the rest of the world.  Chris looked angelic, he thought, knowing it was absurd.  He stared, waiting for the illusion to pass, for his mind to recognize that he was just a man.  His throat felt tight and squeezed snug by the collar, his breath pushing and pulling through it.  He was losing his mind.  He needed to be fucked again, five minutes ago.

"Argent," he managed, licking his lips.

"Yes, Derek?"  That smug look was on his face again; he knew exactly what he was doing.  Not angelic: fiendish.

"Fuck me already."

Chris leaned in and, with only a touch of hesitation, licked his mouth down onto Derek's cock.  Derek's jaw went slack in surprise at the hot sensation.  Chris pulled up and back down, wetter and further.  Derek's head thudded back onto the table, though he barely felt it over the soft writhe on his cock. 

Chris delivered an uninhibited- if disjointed- blowjob. 

Derek hadn't (he struggled to think of anything past the mouth on his cock) had a blowjob during a heat, ever.  His hips started to twitch up into the soft, burning mouth.  Chris dug in his fingers over his iliac crests, making Derek freeze while sucking in a startled, gasping moan.  Fresh omega's fluid worked its way out of his ass.  Chris resumed the slide of his lips and tongue while pinning him down with the threat of claws.

Some seconds or minutes later, the hot sensation disappeared, letting the cool basement air touch his wet flesh.

"Relax," Chris said firmly, and Derek realized that he was straining against the restraints, the cuffs digging into the bones of his wrist, his biceps taut.  Derek panted, gathering himself, and forced his muscles to let go.

His ass was freely wet.  He was so hot he felt like he was burning alive.

"Fuck me.  Fuck me already," he begged.

Chris took his damn sweet time taking a last swallow of beer, then wiped the spit from his lips with the back of his thumb.  Derek watched him, entranced.  He had been wrong to think of Chris as either angelic or fiendish- he was greater than that, he was god-like.  His capricious will wasn't either end of it, it just was, it was the way of it, and Derek would take whatever he gave him, either way.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek had a vital need to nuzzle up to Chris, to lick at his chin and teeth and proffer his deference, to show that any thoughts of fighting or running to a different alpha were completely gone.

"Argent," he called, voice breaking.

"Alright, kid," Chris said, consolatory.  "Relax.  I've got you."  He slid between Derek's bent, spread legs and pulled his ass flush with the end of the table.  Chris opened his fly and extracted his cock, tugging it to full hardness.  It was the first Derek has seen it, thick and malleable, the tip ruddy, the knot just a gathering of loose skin near the base.  Derek's erection was straining out of his skin, coated with Chris's saliva and glistening.  A new gossamer of precum clung to his belly.

A hand slid back over Derek's high-angled thigh, pausing to squeeze the muscle there, then up to his hip.  There it anchored Derek's thoughts at the prospect of being mounted and steadied the two of them as Chris found his ready hole and pushed inside.  Derek was less resistantly tight this time; the only pain was a short, sharp flex as his body stretched open again for Chris. 

They both voiced a noise of satisfaction.  The fast and rough dominance from their first coupling settled into a steady fever.  Chris fucked him slow and deep, working him over until Derek's core was a buzz of sparkling pleasure.

Chris leaned down over him, spreading his fingers and rubbing around his ribs like he was hungry for the feeling of Derek's skin on his palms.  His weight pushed Derek's thighs wider, his belly skating sweet, teasing contact against Derek's cock.  The angle turned his thrusts shallow, and he dipped down to scent his prize between his jaw and the collar.

Derek took the opportunity.  The restraints holding his arms over his head had left him without flexibility through his shoulders; he had to crane up to lick at Chris, haphazardly grazing his prickly cheek.

Chris's face tiled a few degrees, puzzlement just forming on his features when Derek licked again, reaching his Cupid's bow.  His next lick stuck with a slight wet adhesion on the underside of Chris's upper lip.  Chris gave a piqued huff but allowed it.  Having hit his mark, Derek licked again and again, sliding the flat of his tongue over the glossy, wet curve of Chris's incisors.  For a handful of seconds Chris permitted his fawning apology, maybe understanding the animal gesture, maybe not.

"You're in deep now, aren't you?" Chris said against his moving tongue, his lips turned slick with Derek's saliva.  He pushed Derek back flat to the table by the throat, pressing down over the collar.  Derek let his head tip back.  The prongs on the collar's interior dug into him, feeling like teeth at his throat.  Chris groaned when the sheathe around his cock reflexively tightened down. 

A prickling sensation washed over Derek, hot and insistent.

Chris delivered a series of vigorous thrusts into Derek's tightened channel before releasing the pressure at his throat.  A ghost of sensation lingered there, like the alpha's hands were inside of him, under his flesh.

When Derek eventually let his chin lower, he saw Chris's eyes had softened and his brow twisted up.  He recognized the expression vaguely: the heat bond.  Preeminent hunter or not, Chris was an alpha with a receptive omega under him.  Oxytocin was heady. 

He watched a droplet of sweat pause in the hollow of Chris's temple then trickle down the side of his face, over the arch of his cheekbone and through the stubble down to the edge of his jaw. 

Chris grabbed him behind the neck, seeming to climb up inside of him as he pulled them close enough to kiss.  Derek eagerly licked at him, but another hand fisted in his hair and pulled tight in reprimand, so he let Chris kiss him like the humans did. 

Derek's orgasm came with little rolls of his hips shifting his cock pinned between them.

#

Chris was tied snugly in his ass when he emerged to reality again.  Content, Derek stretched minutely against his bonds, tightening and releasing his thighs, lengthening his back, extending his arms.  His injured shoulder was a little stiff and the poultice pulled when he stretched too far, giving an uncomfortable tugging sensation on the inside of him.  He settled, turned his face into the inside of his bicep, and clenched down on the knot so perfect inside of him.

Chris spat out a half-articulated curse.

#

Chris tousled his hair roughly.  "You still under?"  Derek tried to nuzzle into his hand, which seemed to answer Chris's question. 

Chris moved away through a door by the kitchenette.  Soon, the sounds and smells of a running shower came out: water splashing, steam, mildewed plastic.  He was tempted by the mental image of Chris naked and wet with cleansing hands rubbing over himself, as well as the desire to have warm water cleanse his own body of cum and the forest dirt still adorning him.  He tried to sit up only to be confused by the chains, clattering and rasping, still holding him down.

His attention wandered. 

He could tell by subtle reverberations of sound that there was open space behind him.  Sifting through the clues on the air, he found a bouquet of sex foremost, but also tinny ozone, acrid bullets, and dust.  And rubber, mechanical oil, and gasoline.  Hidden in the dark at that end of the basement was a garage, where a car was parked- and there would also be a garage door, which would lead to the outside. 

For a moment, he thought he could taste the crisp coolness of the night air coming through gaps in the door's seal.

The shower shut off and curtain rings scratched.

He heard Chris's bare feet pad around, the soft scratch of a towel wiping on skin, then a pause while Chris looked to check that Derek was where he'd left him.

"You good?"

"I need a shower," Derek said, the words tripping out slow and heat-drunk.

"No.  You don't want to be soaking wet if I have to shock you."  He came out, eyeing Derek's body.  "And that poultice can't get wet."

Chris's approach pushed a waft of scent into Derek's face.  Chris smelled glorious.  The bitter old sweat and poison had been washed off of him.  There was the faintest cling of waxy soap but mostly Derek could smell him, just him- a suedey scent of skin, sweet with sebum, and a draft of pheromones.

The thought of the outside air of a few moments ago became instantly unattractive.  He wanted to cuddle up here with his alpha in their den.

Chris stood over him: shadows pooled in the hollows under the broad bones of his shoulders, his long hands reached, a gold ring glinted on one finger.  His eyes were narrow and pale and hungry.  Chris's fingers met his body and the world fell away again.

#

Night turned to day in a collection of half-awakenings.  The hands moving and holding him were both gentle and rough; the body pressed to him was by turns hot and supple and cool and clammy.  He may have begged Chris to claim him, or maybe he'd only been thinking it, and while embarrassingly servile it was ultimately harmless because Chris could do no such thing.

#

He was boundlessly pleased to be directed (by gentle hands this time) to get on his knees with his chest to the ground.

#

Tying on the concrete floor was decidedly uncomfortable.

#

Despite his submission, Chris still liked to scratch his fingernails over his flanks and dig his fingers in.  It made Derek gush and clench and whimper and desperately lick for Chris's mouth while Chris chuckled (he could feel the sound through his body) and nipped at him.

#

A sandwich had been made for him.  He sat on a cold metal chair at the table they'd fucked on and looked down at a white ceramic plate with china blue ivy decorating the edge.  A glass full of water was pushed toward him with the grating scratch of glass-on-steel.  It must have been dawn, because a gray light softened the shadows.  Then, the plate empty, a beloved hand pushed him between the shoulder blades to bend over the table again.

#

He was on the floor, still in the basement, on his front with a crumpled quilt under him, and Chris on top of and in him.  The quilt smelled like Chris, not threatening and alpha-like, but the muted scents of a den: of being slept-in and cozy safe.

#

Chris relented and let him walk, hobbled and limping, to the bathroom.  The forefront of Derek brain struggled to the surface.  There was something he had wanted to do when he was free.  He had wanted to grab Chris and feel him, touch him ( _was that it?_ )- he hadn't been allowed to do that yet-

"Turn around and walk through the door," Chris snapped, tone authoritative.  Derek hesitated.  "Turn around.  Walk."  He did.

#

Back on the floor, on his side, on the quilt: Chris was knotted in him, pressed close with an arm slung over the cradle of his hips and the other arm threaded under his neck and loosely across his throat.  Chris's nose was in the small hairs at the back of his neck, tickling them with soft breaths.

#

He was snug: sheltered, wanted.  He was pack.


	5. Chapter 5

Chris left him a little before sunset, when the ambient sunlight had dimmed and the fluorescent lights washed the basement in whites and shadows.  He was dressed like he'd been when they'd met the night before: in boots, canvas jacket, and trimmed stubble.  The image evoked a strange fear in Derek- not the normal prudence that kept the pack hierarchy in order, but a fear that told him to run.

"What?" Chris had said when he noticed Derek's cagey stare.

A pungent aura of fresh wolfsbane clung to Chris and tasted like aluminum foil in Derek's mouth when he came near.  He took Derek through a solid, sealed door in the back of the basement into a small room.  There was a steel table (a duplicate of the one in the armory), a collection of thick gauge chains hanging from hooks on the wall, and a path of rubber mats that lead to a ten-foot square, iron barred cell.  It smelled like antiseptic and rust.  Derek balked at the cell's gate. 

Chris lured him in with a beckoning finger and half of a contrite smile. 

He locked the cell's gate and removed Derek's cuffs and shackles through the bars.  "Victoria will check on you," he said.  "No howling."  Derek reached for him, but Chris was already beyond arm's length.  He left, closing the door behind him.

It was a long night. 

The walls were lined in black foam and the door was fitted tight with a gasket, leaving the room baffled from sound.  Chris had turned on an incandescent bulb before he left.  It burned bright in his retinas to look at but only cast faint yellow light elsewhere, striping the cell in the shadows of the bars.  There was a camp cot with the familiar, well-worn, red cotton quilt from earlier haphazardly folded on the end, and a pair of gray sweatpants and a white undershirt more neatly folded.  There was an empty, lidded five-gallon bucket, a roll of toilet paper, and a gallon jug of tap water that smelled faintly of chlorine.

His body was dully sore all over.  He paced (up on the ball of the one foot) and picked at his poultice and jerked off a couple times to limited satisfaction.  He put the clothes on.  They were a size too small.

An alpha woman he distantly knew was Victoria Argent- but more immediately and overwhelmingly knew was an interloper- came in twice.  The first time, he'd backed away from her nervously.  He could discourage secondary suitors with force if he needed to.  She left before long, leaving a plate of cling-wrapped food and the smell of powdery wisteria behind her.  The second time, hours later, he was sick enough of the aching, wanting limerence of his heat that he shamefully leaned into the bars and sought her attention.  He'd prefer his heat-bonded partner, but that sort of loyalty only lasted as long as he could stand being abandoned. 

She secured his hands and pet him through the bars gingerly, as if she wanted to sully as few finger pads as possible at the contact. It wasn't at all the presumptuous grip that Chris had.  Chris touched him like he had a right; Victoria touched him like she had a duty. 

She smelled like dried wisteria flowers and vanilla and coffee, and apple blossom soap and rosy hairspray: all covered up in masking scents.  Somewhere in the midst, her woman's pheromones were tranquilizing.  She didn't demand any submission from him, though he would have given it gratefully.  Stress eased out of him and his mind settled into a pleasant haze.  When she left, he burrowed into the quilt and finally, after being up for most of a day and a half, fell asleep.

#

He woke to the room door open, the silhouette of a man blocking the glow of the incandescent bulb.  Light reached around to touch the epaulets of his jacket, the tips of his hair, and the grip of the gun jutting out from his thigh.  Chris stood quietly (only audible from his lungs and heart) as if having seen Derek sleeping, he wasn't sure that he wanted to wake him.  A pang of angst went through Derek- a hysteria that Chris might have left again if he hadn't woken- a resentment that he'd been gone at all- a staggering hope that everything could be alright now.  He had been so angry and alone before Chris had found him in the woods.  He didn't have to be like that anymore. 

He pushed himself to his feet and limped over to the bars, leaning his temple and the bone of his hip into it.  He wrapped his fingers around the rust-pocked iron. 

In a low voice, as if staying quiet for someone still asleep, Chris said, "We almost had him."

Derek licked through his teeth, trying to remember how to say words.

Chris fastened him to the bars the same way Victoria had, his hands to a crossbar just over his forehead.  He unlocked the gate roughly and came in behind Derek like he belonged there.  He scraped his stubble against the back of Derek's neck and scented him deeply.  Chris was all coarse canvas, steel buttons, and denim against his back, still cool with the chill of autumn night and smelling like wild places.  Fresh, wet, dusky loam was packed into the tread of his boots and bright, tart sap had brushed against his jacket from ducked-under evergreen boughs.  He smelled like dried up adrenaline and frustration and like an alpha pleased to see his heat partner.

When Derek canted his head to search out his scent, seeking the hot skin of his neck, Chris rebuffed him, drawing away and pressing him forward between the shoulder blades.  Derek didn't resist. 

Pushing Derek's sweatpants below the bulk of his ass, Chris drew a finger over Derek's hole and found him still dry from sleep.  He paused.  Derek knew the frustration of an alpha wanting to mount, so with an insidious tension chasing away the looseness of sleep, he cautiously shifted his heels out and whined quietly.  He would be ready in a minute.

"Relax," Chris told him and ran his hands up the back of his neck and through his hair in a hurried facsimile of soothing touches, down the valley of his spine and up again, rucking up his shirt and letting it fall.  He pulled the front of Derek's waistband out around his livening erection and down to his thighs to expose him.  He took Derek's cock in hand, his touch sure, using a tight grip near the head that made Derek curl urgently in nervous, surprised pleasure.  Chris went up under the hem of his shirt again, dragging his fingernails over his flank and making him shy away, following him with the scuffing of boots.  He pulled fingernails over Derek's belly and seemed warmly appreciative when Derek swayed back into his arms to escape his hand. 

"Okay, okay," Chris told him and let him settle in the cradle of his arms, their legs crisscrossed each between the other's.  The denim-restrained bulge at Chris's crotch pressed into the mound of one of Derek's ass cheeks.  The cool edge of a boot lay beside the arch of his bare foot.  Chris's hand on his cock moved in short, tight strokes that were jaw-looseningly right.  Raw pleasure tore through him.  In the last day, Chris had become well versed in how Derek liked to be touched.

Chris held him like that for a minute, stroking him tightly.  "I was gone too long, wasn't I?" he said like an apology.

Chris's hand strayed low; his palm pressed Derek's balls while fingers quested across his taint and through his cheeks to find him wet.

"You're so good.  You've always been good, haven't you?"

A flood of peace went through him to hear the satisfaction in Chris's voice.

Chris gripped Derek's hips with both hands, testing their angle and tilting them to his preference, pushing down with his thumbs and pulling back with his pinky fingers in the ticklish socket of his hip joint.  He nudged Derek's feet wider, then worked his own fly open.

Derek took a deep breath, the last residual tension of the night falling away.  He leaned on his arms, let the hard hold of steel around his wrists support some of his weight, let his body loosen.  Behind him, Chris took a breath too and calmed; the sound of his heart quieted.  His hands lost some of their urgency, starting to slow and savor the sensation of touch as he gripped one of Derek's ass cheeks open and pressed his prick inside.

It was the first mouthful of dessert after eating nothing all day: an explosion of sweet, brilliant sensation.  It was stepping into the shade of the forest after baking in the summer California sun: a tranquil relief.  It was an invasion, a ravishment, something base and shameful and natural and right.

Derek pushed his hips back into Chris, rolling with him, finding the proper tilt and rock to make his guts quiver.  It was the first time he'd been able to- the first time he wasn't tied down too tightly or against a floor or table corner too painfully unyielding to do so.  Chris drove euphoria into him.  Love and physical pleasure melded into the same thing and overflowed from an endless wellspring inside of him.  He was melting, leaking out into the world where it touched him. 

"Easy," Chris said in breathless command.

Derek kept moving his hips when Chris started to tie with him, chasing the stretch and plunder of their joining.  It earned him a few verbal warnings and then- after a brief, one-sided scuffle- a stinging, crushing bite under his ear.  Derek yelped at the pain and stilled, subdued.  Chris panted hot gusts around the clutch of skin and tendons in his teeth, just above the collar.  His knot grew and pressed intimately inside of Derek.  A hollow growl rumbled from Chris's larynx.  It was a weak sound, more of an angry groan than the primal, resonant growls familiar to Derek, but it chastised and aroused him anyway.  Derek's cock flexed.  More omega's fluid smeared into his crack and against Chris's groin. 

When their tie was seated more securely, and Derek had remained compliant between Chris's body and the bars, Chris deliberately released his teeth.  Derek's skin stuck and then peeled away from his incisors.

"Derek," Chris said, vocal fry lingering in his tone, accusing and admonishing.  "Be good for me."  Derek tried not to move, even though he was sure he could get Chris to cum deeper inside of him if he spread his legs and arched his back more.

Chris took Derek's face in his hand, clamping firmly over his mouth and drawing him by degrees into the crook of Chris's neck.  There his blood streamed hot under his skin and tossed fresh pheromone molecules into the air.  Derek breathed in a headful of it.  He moaned a short, high, desperate sound.  His eyes flitted closed and then half open again.  His eyelashes brushed Chris's cheek.

He tasted the air as it passed through his throat.  It was sweet, savory, and sour all at once.   It was human, male, mean, and comforting.

Derek made another helpless noise.  It was muffled by Chris's hand.

"You're all right," Chris told him.


End file.
